


Forfeit

by mistresscurvy



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Choking, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistresscurvy/pseuds/mistresscurvy
Summary: An alternate end to a game of chess.
Relationships: Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny/Graham Reid Malett
Comments: 14
Kudos: 23
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Forfeit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phoebe_Zeitgeist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebe_Zeitgeist/gifts).



> Thank you to A and H for talking me through this, as always. 
> 
> Happy Yuletide! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

_Gabriel, rousing minute by minute from his paralysis of disbelief, cut through their thoughts. “Give up, Francis. How can you know what you’re doing? You don’t make decisions at low ebb. Not decisions you’ll live with in after years. Leave the children alone. I won’t checkmate you. I’ll give you stalemate in a handful of moves. Stalemate….A draw, neither winning. You go free, and so do I.”_

_“No,” said Lymond._

_“Your vow?” said Gabriel. “That means nothing either? You would have your son strangled?”_

"Not a stalemate," said Lymond. "Roxelana Sultan will have her winner. The choice of who that winner will be is up to you." 

The rage and despair that had coursed through Jerott's body when Roxelana Sultan gave her verdict on one child's life or the other curdled into confusion. From the look on Gabriel's face, Jerott was not alone. 

"After all this, you will throw your life away?" asked Gabriel, sounding as though he didn't know whether to hope for this or fear it. 

"I will offer you two choices, just as you have offered two choices to me: take my King, and release all the other pieces and the girl; or die." 

"Die at the price of a pawn's life," said Gabriel.

Lymond merely inclined his head. "Roxelana Sultan has declared it so." 

"Francis," hissed Jerott, an altogether different terror rising in his throat. 

"Hush," said Lymond, as if Jerott were one of the bairns. They all were, he realized, every person in the room, waiting on Gabriel's answer. 

"Why would you trust me to keep my word, if I accepted your forfeit?" asked Gabriel. 

"It is publicly stated, and will only be enacted by the grace of the Sultana, if she so chooses." Lymond looked barely affected while he waited for her decision. 

Roxelana said, "What a winner chooses to do with the girl and the other pieces after the conclusion of the match is of no concern to us. But we will not grant this request and permit the terms to be broken, to be made a mockery in such a way." 

"The choice is yours, Gabriel. Die, or win yourself another chance at a life. I am sure there are other kingdoms desperate for your particular skills. You might try Russia," said Lymond.

"Why would I wish to win at the price of losing the girl? What else could fairly compensate for that?" said Gabriel. 

Philippa did not know the answer to that question, but Jerott took a sharp breath in the moment before Francis Crawford said, "Me." 

"I presume the Sultana will grant you the right to personally kill me," Lymond added. "It seems only fitting, after you have sacrificed so much."

"It is granted," said Roxelana Sultan. 

" _Done_ ," said Gabriel, just as Jerott cried out, "Francis, no!" His heart could not bear this, the knowledge that Gabriel, in his pristine white and gold robes, the falsest garb a man could ever wear, would live on in this world, and Francis would not. 

"Despair not," said Lymond. "Mikal, take the boy and bring him the shells. Jerott, explain to Kate how terribly sorry I am when you meet your new mother-in-law." And before Jerott could fully parse his final instructions from Francis Crawford, Lymond spoke the words that put his King directly in harm's way, and lost. 

From the moment Francis said the words, Gabriel could not look away from him. He barely remembered his own line, whatever move was necessary to lose by winning. For he had in fact been beaten; that was perfectly clear. Lymond had had the best of him, even in defeat, even while he was held by the mutes until Gabriel dismissed them. 

Gabriel hated that. 

So he waited; he waited and watched Lymond's face as the children were taken away, as the men, who had not fully understood the stakes of the game Gabriel had convinced them to join, fled, even as Jerott finally allowed himself to be led away by Francis's sister like the love-sick fool he was. He looked and looked, attempting and failing to understand the expression on Lymond's face. And then, when the room was finally theirs, he walked up to Francis and slapped him, open-palmed, across the face.

"Get on your knees," said Gabriel. 

"Shall I disrobe first?" asked Francis, and the fury that rose up in Gabriel at the question, because he wished for nothing more, receded almost as quickly as it had come. The insolence and superiority which Gabriel expected to see in Francis--the qualities which he would surely display, were their roles reversed--was utterly lacking. In its place was something Gabriel had never dreamt of seeing, and had wanted desperately for that reason: submission. Extraordinary at any time, and beyond comprehension while deep in the throes of opium. 

"You may," said Gabriel, almost gently. His eyes were hungry as Francis revealed himself to him, his body narrowed by the addiction that stalked him, but the fundamentals were still the same. Or at least, the same in all but his affect. It was the first time Gabriel felt he wasn't playing a game with Francis; the game was won, and this, Francis's body ravaged by opium and his face bruised from Gabriel's hand, was his prize. 

Once naked, Francis knelt without waiting to be told again, his eyes downcast not out of aversion or shame, but a queer and wholly unfamiliar courtesy. Gabriel did not hesitate any longer, his cock freed and hard in his hand seconds after Lymond's knees hit the cold stone. "Suck," said Gabriel softly, bravado still found in his action, because while Lymond was in the more vulnerable position, Gabriel had never known him to completely surrender. 

But Lymond took him in his mouth, calmly and neatly, both hands resting at the small of his back as he allowed Gabriel entry. He sucked and licked and swallowed as Gabriel caressed his face, running his hands through his hair. "Look at me," he said, smiling at the pinprick pupils that immediately met his gaze. "You're drunk on cock. Had Jerott known this could satisfy you as well as opium, what would he have done? How could he survive the other twenty-three hours of the day after one hour of experiencing this?" He shoved his hips forward hard, relishing how Francis choked and moved with him, his eyes never leaving Gabriel's. "Truth be told, even I almost regret your coming death, but there are other cocksuckers in the world." He pulled away abruptly, Francis falling forward onto his hands. "Yes, stay like that."

He circled Francis slowly, noting the scars he knew and the ones he didn't. The world had marked him beautifully. Gabriel longed for his whip for a moment, and then put aside foolish regrets. He dropped to his knees behind Francis, who had not moved. 

"If you had been less stubborn in Scotland, I could have done this properly," said Gabriel, "with oil instead of spit." He reached around and shoved two fingers into Francis's mouth before bringing them around to open him up. 

"Don't need it," said Francis, his voice scraped raw but still so instantly compelling. 

"No?" asked Gabriel. "Do you want it to hurt, darling?" He had been determined not to give Francis what he wanted, but if their desires happened to coalesce in this moment it felt foolish to spurn them. He gripped Francis tightly by the hips and pulled him back onto his cock, slowly and inextricably. 

When he started to fuck him, Gabriel reconsidered his initial assumption. "Oh, you were ready for this, weren't you, slut?" He got one hand up around Francis's throat, pressing him back against Gabriel's chest as he fucked up into his perfect, docile body. "You and my sister truly were made for each other. I never understood why you didn't succumb to her." 

"Wrong sibling," said Francis, open-mouthed and panting as Gabriel fucked him. Gabriel reached down to Francis's hard cock and squeezed with both hands, feeling the blood thrum through his neck and cock. 

"Apparently so," said Gabriel, beginning to truly regret how this must end. "You are the sweetest whore I've ever had the pleasure of owning, even more so than Joleta. Winning her body was the work of a few hours, but you. I've fought whole wars for this." With his thumb he turned Francis's head toward his own, half-expecting that this would be the bridge too far. But Francis opened for his tongue as easily as he'd opened for his cock, shaking as Gabriel worked over him with a punishing stroke. Francis bit down on Gabriel's lower lip when he started to spill over, the taste of blood bursting in Gabriel's mouth, and Gabriel could not resist the urge to mirror the action and bit down just as hard, the metalic taste of copper oddly bitter in the back of his throat. 

He tried to keep his hand tight around Francis's neck, hoping to spill inside his body even as Francis drew his last breath, but his strength had begun to leave him, even the effort of fucking him through his final moments of esctasy suddenly too taxing. He heard hoarse cries escaping from his throat as he chased it, followed by the wild laughter of Francis Crawford. 

And then: darkness.


End file.
